


This Bag of Stones

by waltzmatildah



Category: Rookie Blue
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltzmatildah/pseuds/waltzmatildah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately prior to the opening paint ball scene of episode 4.03, 'Different, Not Better', with implied references to episode 2.03, 'Bad Moon Rising'.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>She fires on instinct, years of tactical training kicking in; getting the job done quickly and efficiently despite the novelty of the environment and the intimate familiarity of the target.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	This Bag of Stones

She fires on instinct, years of tactical training kicking in; getting the job done quickly and efficiently despite the novelty of the environment and the intimate familiarity of the target.

Her victim freezes around a harsh intake of air that trips a jagged path over her nerve endings. Pulls his helmet off roughly and lets it drop heavily to the uneven ground at his feet, his chin lowered to his chest; shocked.

Her eyes follow his, wide, settle on the spread of _blood_ across his abdomen as the air between them evaporates in an instant. His fingers are pressed against the stain and he looks up suddenly, looks across at her, brows creased into the lost kind of frown only memories of past horror can ever hope to conjure.

“Luke…” she says, cautious. And she has her own collection of catalogued images; blood, pooled, and a heartbeat that barely flutters beneath ghost-grey skin.

 

 

 

She watches as he forcibly pulls himself back together, scrubbing the heel of his hand through the blur of white paint, a visible wince against the myriad phantom agonies.

“It’s okay,” he says, head bobbing loosely as he stares back at her, unconvincing. 

She’s moved forward without conscious thought, scuffed her boots far enough through the dust that her fingers, outstretched, are within reach of his. The sun on her back is hot, the chemical tang of the exploded paint ball burns at her nostrils, the back of her throat.

“Luke,” she says again, her voice catching on the sounds. “I-”

He raises his hands then, straight up in mock surrender, forced grin firmly in place.

The rare moment of understanding, _of uneasy connection_ , between them, now well and truly lost.

 

 

 

“You win,” he says, puffs the words out around a bark of sudden laughter, shrugs with a degree of casualness she knows without doubt is all bluff. He bends at the waist as he continues speaking, ducks his eyes from her view as he collects the rental helmet from where it had rolled, momentarily forgotten at his feet, hoists his plastic weapon back over his shoulder. “I really should get back to the station anyway…”

“Luke, I’m sorry, I didn’t…” 

She pulls her own helmet off then, runs a hand across her face and swallows roughly as her heart continues to tap out a freight train rhythm against her ribcage.

 

 

 

Blink: _blood stains; his._

Blink: _screaming; most definitely hers…_

 

 

 

“Hey, Andy, it’s fine, okay?”

His voice splits her flashback in two and it’s stuttered seconds before she can drag herself back to _now_ with a nod that is only part borderline hysteria.

“It’s just a bit of paint,” he’s saying, “No big deal.” 

_No big deal…_

It’s a lie, and they both know it, though neither of them will break the unspoken truce that has descended and mention it.

 

 

 

“I should never have let Peck talk me into this in the first place. Tell the others I got called back or something, okay?”

He’s got one arm out now, the palm of his hand settled, solid, on her shoulder. He squeezes once, tight, tilts his head a little to the side with a genuine grin.

“You good?”

She nods, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

“Now go claim that damn giraffe.”

She nods again, slowly, allows herself a deep breath as her lungs remember how to function with some degree of calm.

 

 

 

“I’m pretty sure it’s a camel,” she says, softly and to his retreating back.


End file.
